


A Picture of Illness and Beauty

by neenapee



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:54:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29698785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neenapee/pseuds/neenapee
Summary: Dorian Gray falls ill and seeks comfort in an old friend. Romance at the end if you squint:)
Relationships: Dorian Gray/Basil Hallward, if you squint haha
Kudos: 11





	A Picture of Illness and Beauty

Most days, Dorian wakes with the sun. As the golden rays peek out from his curtains he would stretch like a cat, basking in the warmth and glory of the sun that seems to shine only for him. Today, however, it is not the sun that wakes him. While most days he could get annoyed at the sun that disturbs him, today he yearns for the sweet rays of the sun, their touch upon his nightshirt, the feeling of their warmth. Today he is woken by a fever that draws sweat to his brow and that sits in his bones and causes an ache so deep he thinks he could cry. He manages to turn his head to see that even the sun is barely awake. He catches a hint of pink and a poke of orange above the buildings of the city but stars still glitter in the sky and the house is quiet around him. He flings his arm over his brow, a strangled groan coming from his mouth. The day has not yet begun and on Saturdays such as this one, he usually has a lie-in until noon. He tries to force his body back to sleep, sink into that blissful unconsciousness that protects him from the fever, but his aches and pains keep him awake, the coughs that stick in his throat, and the drippiness of his nose. His handkerchief is out of reach and he has no energy to reach for it. Instead of rolling over the extra couple of inches to reach the handkerchief, he wipes his nose on the edge of his sheet before closing his eyes, willing his body to stop aching just long enough so that he can sleep. Victor will not be in for another couple of hours when he will come into Dorian’s room and draw the curtains back and give him a cup of coffee and a meal. He buries his face in his pillow, hoping to bear the wait until Victor arrives. 

It is hours later when Dorian hears footsteps. He must have dozed off, but upon his awakening, the ache and pains of his fever have returned. He groans, and Victor stops next to his bed, hands behind his back. “You are already awake, I see, Mr. Gray,” he says. “How are you this fine morning, sir?” 

“Oh, Victor, I am afraid I have fallen ill overnight,” Dorian says. “If you would be so kind as to pass me my handkerchief, I would be very grateful.” 

“Of course, sir.” The handkerchief is pressed into his hands, and Dorian blows his nose with a wet honk. It fills back up and he dabs at his nose, the silk soothing the chapped skin underneath. Oh, how do other people manage, without such soft silk to soothe their burning nose when they are ill? It has been mere hours since Dorian’s unfortunate plunge into fever, and he already whines over his chapped nose and his aching limbs. Why, he thinks that if he could not be offered the creature comforts of life during his illness, he thinks he would simply die! “How are you feeling, sir?” 

“Oh, just awful,” Dorian says. “I feel achy and tired, as my sleep has been disrupted all night and I have such a horrible cough you couldn’t even imagine and I feel as if I am burning from the inside! Doesn’t that sound simply dreadful?” 

“Quite awful, sir.” 

“I fear I must stay in bed for all-day at least,” Dorian says, flinging his arm across his forehead dramatically. He can feel the heat of his fever on his forearm and coughs barrel through his chest as if someone had pushed them out from his stomach and up through his throat. “Would you fetch me some tea for the morning?” 

“Would you like anything more substantial?” 

“I am afraid that I am too ill to handle much more than a simple cup of tea,” Dorian says. “I would appreciate a bowl of soup around midday.” 

“Of course, sir. Would you like me to phone a doctor?” 

“I would appreciate it if you would wait, Victor. We mustn’t make a big deal out of a small cold if it is just a small cold.” 

“Well, I hope it is just that, sir. Your tea will be up shortly.” The door shuts softly behind Victor and Dorian settles down on his pile of silk pillows, wiping his chapped nose with his handkerchief. It is already soaked through with snot and illness; he will have to call for a new one shortly. His nose twitches and he presses his handkerchief to his nose, his breath hitching and his nostrils flaring. “hIh-shooo! hhEEEPtchooo!” He sniffles, dabbing at his nose that leaks with illness and germs. Such a sorry state that he is in, with his hair rumpled and his skin taking on a pale pallor that makes it appear that all the life has been sucked out of him. If he were to appear in public, he would be mistaken for a ghost, perhaps a dead man risen from the grave to remind the town of how truly awful the dead appear to be. No, he will be staying inside for this day and maybe next, if only to save the general public from his awful appearance and the illness that he spews. 

Victor brings up the tea, steaming hot that loosens up the contents of his nose and makes it stream. It warms him, though, as the chills from his fever make him yearn for the heat from the morning. He sips the tea until it’s cold, and when the tea has gone cold and his head aches and pounds with the simple stresses of his life he rolls over in his bed, pulling his sheets over his shoulders. He shivers as if he has been caught in a storm and he considers reaching for his bell, to call Victor, to beg for more blankets, more tea, an attractive person to come and hug him from behind and use their body heat to warm him. The cold alone, the incessant chills that run up and down his spine as if racing for a first-place trophy of who can make him the most miserable makes him want to call for a doctor who will pump him full of medicine that will leave him drowsy and sleepy. But he doesn’t have the time to contemplate anything of the sort before his illness pulls him under for a fitful sleep that offers pitiful rest that leaves him achy still. 

He is woken by a knock at his door. “Sir,” calls Victor’s voice, the sound piercing his skull and making him groan. “Sir, Mr. Basil Hallward is here to see you.” 

“Oh, did I not tell you to send away any visitors?” 

“You did not, sir. Would you like me to send him away?” 

Dorian stops, thinks, considers. Maybe it would be nice to have someone more than a servant in the vicinity, someone a bit closer to a friend. Someone willing to comfort, to soothe him in his time of pain, distress, illness. “No, Victor. Send him in.” 

“Excellent. Mr. Gray will see you now, Mr. Hallward.” The door creaks open and heavy footsteps sound on the floor before the door swings shut. Dorian lounges in his bed, closing his eyes as the pounding in his head grows worse and worse, as if a very large man is trying to crack through the walls of his skull. A chair is pulled up to his bedside, and Basil takes his hand, running his thumb over Dorian’s hand. 

“Such a sad event, when someone so beautiful falls so ill,” Basil says. Dorian opens his eyes and looks into the eyes of the older man, his eyes somehow soothing him. 

“Just a cold, Basil, you mustn’t worry too much.” 

“Well, when you did not show up for our appointment, I began to worry,” Basil says. “It is not like you to miss an appointment, Dorian. Oh, the horrible thoughts that went through my head! Death, or perhaps a grave injury that left you in the hospital.” 

“You needn't worry, Basil, nothing more than a cold. Picked up from the chill outside or a servant perhaps. I shall be under the weather for a couple of days.” His nose twitches, and he draws his handkerchief to his flaring nostrils. Basil draws back, clearly not wanting to catch the illness that has Dorian in its grips. “hEEEEh-t’shoo! eeeH’SHOO!” He sniffles, dabbing at his nose with his handkerchief as his nostrils fill back up. “I apologize for my undoing. I know it mustn’t be pleasant to see me so ill; it isn’t proper.” 

“Oh, my dear, please do not worry about your appearance on my behalf,” Basil says. “Even ill, your beauty is more pronounced than that of the finest lady, and even as you lounge in bed, you pour more inspiration into my art and make me a better man than I have ever been.” 

“Well, you mustn’t let my illness stop you,” Dorian says with a small cough. “If you’d like to fetch a pencil and a paper, you can draw. I won’t mind; I shall fall asleep shortly, I am feeling quite poorly and I suspect that I will not be able to stave off sleep for long.” 

“Oh, thank you, Dorian! I shall fetch a pencil and a paper now.” 

“Oh, and Basil, if you would please tell Victor to bring up a bowl of soup-” 

“Of course, my dear Dorian. I shall return shortly.” 

The door swings shut and Dorian sinks into his bed, holding his handkerchief to his nose. The itch is back, an incessant little bug that makes him wish for the sweet relief of death or wellness, whichever comes first. “heeeuuuushoooo!” He sniffles wetly, blowing his nose and flopping down to his bed. He tugs his blanket, flipping over and staring hazily at the wall. He could read a book, but his head aches too much to focus even on a conversation, and his exhaustion creeps up his body, filling him as if he is seconds from sleep. His fever puts a hazy sheen over the world and when Victor brings him the soup it sparkles as if lit by the sun. The warmth from the soup chases off the chill from the fever and when Basil returns, Dorian is in a state of half-consciousness, coughing into his fist as Basil sits back down. 

“On the street, I passed at least a half a dozen women, dressed in their finest dresses with makeup plastered onto their faces. Not a one compared to you.” 

“Oh, Basil, you flatter me,” Dorian says, flinging his arm over his eyes. He sniffles, and he can hear the scratching of pencil on paper, and when he takes his arm from his eyes, he can see Basil drawing. “Entertain a poor, sick man, Basil. What are you drawing?” 

“You, of course.” 

“Me? Oh, but Basil, I am a mess! My hair is awful, and my skin is much paler than it normally is. Why would you be so compelled to draw me in such a state?” 

“Because even in illness, I am absolutely entranced by your beauty,” Basil says. “If you would stay still, my dear Dorian, I would be much obliged. It would be wise for you to rest, anyhow. A sick man should not be awake for too long, especially with such a high fever as yours.” 

“Oh, Basil, your concern is appreciated, but I think that I will be able to stay awake, at least for your sketch.” 

Dorian was wrong. Very wrong. He listens to the scratching of Basil’s pencil and he occasionally poses; a little cock of the head, moving his arm ever so slightly to the left. Nothing too strenuous, and for that, Dorian is grateful. His exhaustion is paramount, and a chill that races up his spine disturbs his pose. “Would you like to stop?” Basil asks, setting down his pencil. “You seem so tired, and I would hate to keep you from your rest.” 

“Don’t stop on account of this little cold,” Dorian says. “I am always in awe of your creativity, and not a cold in the world would let me stop you from your art.” 

“I appreciate your selflessness,” Basil says. He picks up his pencil and the scratching resumes. Dorian sighs, a tiny cough escaping his mouth as he sinks into the exhaustion that has a tight hold over his body. Basil hums as he sketches, and although Dorian fights the exhaustion from his cold, he can’t help but give in to the embraces of his cold and he sleeps as Basil draws. 

When Dorian wakes, Basil is gone. The chair sits at an angle from where Basil had risen from his seat, and the pencil and pad are gone. When Dorian sits up, the throbbing in his head intensifies and he groans, burying his head in his arms. He hears a knock at the door and he picks up his head, sniffling as the room spins around him. “Mr. Gray, sir, are you alright? Would you like me to bring you up a cup of tea?” 

“I-” His sentence is broken by a string of coughs that leave him breathless. “Please, Victor. And a cool cloth for my forehead; I am afraid I am quite warm.” 

“Of course, sir. I shall return shortly.” Dorian listens to Victor's footsteps recede and another coughing fit shakes his thin frame, a coughing fit kept muffled into his blankets for his own good and the good of all those around him. Victor returns shortly, summoning a hot beverage seemingly out of nowhere and smoothing a cool cloth over Dorian’s forehead. It soothes his fever just a bit, and he presses the palm of his hand to the cloth. “Are you feeling better?” 

“Unfortunately, it seems that I have become more unwell than I expected,” Dorian says. 

“Would you like me to call for a doctor, sir?” 

“If you would,” Dorian says. “I would enjoy my health again. Illness does not suit me.” 

“No, sir, it does not,” Victor says. “I shall call for a doctor.” 

“I appreciate it.” 

Victor leaves, and Dorian presses his palm to his forehead, feeling the coolness of the washcloth underneath his hand. The room is hazy around him, as if heat rises out of the floors of his bed chambers, seeping into his body and making his bones melt in his skin. A simple sip of tea brings back the insatiable urge to cough and he sits up, hacking into his handkerchief, the washcloth peeling from his forehead. He misses the company of Basil. It was a quiet sort of company- Basil isn’t talkative while he works. He has often described it to Dorian as living and creating in a trance-like state, completely unaware of his surroundings. And yet, having a friend in the vicinity is so comforting in times of illness. Dorian nearly calls Victor back in the room, to send a carriage to fetch Basil, although that would appear that Dorian is desperate for companionship (which, honestly, he is) but his reputation would never recover. No, he will fight this illness without a friend by his bedside waiting for his wellness to return. 

He drifts in and out of sleep. One minute his tea is warm and when he wakes the next time, it’s cold. He calls for more blankets, but the wretched shivering never stops. Oh, what a gale he must have been caught in to come down with such a cold as this one! 

When the sun has long since set and Dorian has been drifting in and out of sleep for hours, he hears a knock at his door. “Come in,” he says, his voice strangled. His throat burns as if it has been lit on fire, and the cloth on his forehead has gone warm from the heat of his own skin. Victor steps inside, suit remaining un-wrinkled and his hair slicked back. He looks the same as he did in the morning, and Dorian is still aware of his own appearance. For the first time in his life he feels unattractive, and he sinks underneath his blankets. 

“Dr. Joyner will be here in the morning, sir.” 

“Thank you, Victor.” 

“Is there anything I can get for you? Another cup of tea, perhaps? Or would you like a fresh cloth for your fever?” 

“Both would be excellent, thank you.”

Victor returns with a cup of ginger tea that loosens the congestion in his nose and makes it stream into his handkerchief. With the loosening of congestion comes the urge to sneeze and he buries his nose in his handkerchief, his entire body shaking with the effort. “hEEEEhshoo! eeUUshoo!”

The cool cloth is spread across his forehead, and just for a moment, he feels a touch of relief from the way his blood boils next to his bones. Victor leaves shortly, and Dorian is plunged back into a state of loneliness, his fever plaguing him. It creates shadows on the wall, shadows that stretch and contorts as if some cruel puppet master hides just beyond the walls, toying with reality and bending it to his whims. He falls asleep soon after finishing his tea and wakes in a cold sweat as the witching hour falls over the city like a thick blanket that steals the air from his lungs and instead instills a deep sense of panic. The silence of the city is deafening and as fear consumes his body he cries out in pain, fever, and loneliness consuming him. He shakes, using his blankets as a shield to the demons that threaten to tear into him. When his fever pulls him back under, he wills his body not to wake up until the morning has long since come, and the darkness threatens him no more. 

For once, his body listens to him. When he wakes, he is greeted by the warm rays of the sun and the footsteps of Victor outside his door. He is no longer alone, and he rejoices for that fact alone. “Victor,” he calls, voice strangled by the cruel hand of illness. Victor comes in, and Dorian struggles to sit up to greet him. “At what time will the doctor arrive?” 

“At noon, sir. How are you feeling this morning?” 

“Quite poorly, although much better than last night,” Dorian says. “It felt as if my fever kept me hostage so that the darkness could terrorize me. To be ill and alone; one of the worst things that can happen to a person.” 

“Would a cup of tea help you to feel better, sir?” 

“Yes, please. That ginger tea you brought to me last night was quite lovely. If you would so kindly bring me a cup, I am sure it would help to ease my pain.” 

Victor brings a cup of tea and the warmth from the beverage makes him feel comforted, as if a lover were hugging him and reminding him that he is not alone. He tries to read, but the words swim before him as if an invisible hand picks up the letters and rearranges them so that he reads a story of jumble. Time seems to drag on and each second feels as if it has doubled. He listens to Victor’s footsteps outside, and he nearly begs Victor to come in, to ignore his duties and just sit with him. He misses the feeling of another human in the room, that warmth that only comes with conversation and touch, of any kind. He nearly cries from happiness when the doctor arrives, cold and aloof with his black doctor’s bag swinging at his side. His glasses perched daintily on his nose look as if they are about to fall off and he pulls the chair up to Dorian’s bedside, frowning at Dorian’s ill body.

“How long have you been ill for?” Dr. Joyner asks. His gaze is something close to judgement, as if Dorian’s illness is only of fault of his own. 

“Two days, maybe,” Dorian says. “Oh, the days blend together in illness, don’t you find?” 

“I would not know,” Dr. Joyner says. “I rarely fall ill. Staying warm can do wonders.” A doctor with all the judgement in the world. Dorian feels colder. 

Dr. Joyner bends over Dorian’s body, lifting up his nightshirt and pressing the stethoscope to his chest. The head is cold against his chin and he shivers, yearning for the warmth of a cup of tea, or a bowl of soup. Dr. Joyner is one of the best doctors in the area and yet, his movements are brash as he pulls up Dorian’s eyelids, presses down on his stomach and sticks a thermometer into Dorian’s mouth. Dorian watches the red bar rise and rise, turning his head to the side and watching the wall go in and out of focus. “39 degrees,” Dr. Joyner says. “That’s high.” 

“I’m aware,” Dorian says. “I can feel my own body. I can feel the heat and the cold, the shaking of my own body. I don’t need you to tell me that my fever is high. I need you to cure me. Cure me, please. Anything, anything to bring my fever down, or to make me feel better. Please, I beg you- I feel so incredibly ill, and I just want to feel better.” He sounds like a petulant child, whining for a piece of candy or a new toy. But he needs so deeply to feel better, he would do anything for a reprieve from his illness. 

“Pepper tea,” Dr. Joyner says. “Thrice a day. Chicken soup to keep you warm, and a mustard paste to spread on your chest will alleviate the cough and the ache that I am sure you feel. Bedrest for a week. Keeping your body in a semi-vegetative street will help to cure you. I will be back in several days to check on your progress and make sure your state is improving.” He opens up his bag and begins to unpack tiny vials of powders, red and black and white. “I assume your butler can make tea?” 

“Yes, he can make tea.” 

“Excellent. Make sure that you drink a cup of pepper tea every four hours, chicken soup for your lunch and dinner, and use the paste twice a day. You should be cured within a week. I will prescribe something stronger if you are not cured.” He stands up, snapping his bag shut and observing Dorian’s body, still shaking with fever and illness and cold. “Do you have any other questions?” 

“No, thank you,” Dorian says. 

“Excellent. I will see you later.” 

Dr. Joyner exchanges words with Victor in the hallway as Dorian sinks against his pillow, shaking with coughs. In a couple of minutes, Victor brings a steaming cup of pepper tea that makes Dorian’s nose stream onto his upper lip and makes his throat itch. The soup is better. Warm and filling, it makes Dorian feel as he’s being hugged. “Mr. Hallward will be here shortly.” 

“Thank you, Victor.” 

“Are you feeling better, sir?” 

“A bit. The tea seems to have loosened up my nose, although I am still quite cold. I do hope that this cold subsides soon; I am so tired of sitting around doing nothing and still being exhausted at the end of the day! Quite horrible, don’t you think?” 

“Yes, quite horrible, sir.” 

“At least I seem to be recovering,” Dorian says. “My head aches a bit less and I hope that I shall be able to read today. I fear that my brain has fallen asleep in my illness.” 

“I don’t think you have to worry about that, sir. You have always been very sharp, and I am sure that a touch of illness will not change that.” 

“You flatter me, Victor, and I thank you,” Dorian says. He hears a knock at the door and Victor turns, hands still clasped behind his back.

“That must be Mr. Hallward,” Victor says. “Shall I see him up?” 

“Please, Victor. The face of a friend will be welcome in my recovery.” 

As Victor turns, Dorian’s body reminds him of his exhaustion, the fact that despite the medicine in his body he is still quite ill. As footsteps come closer, Dorian closes his eyes, resting the back of his hand against his forehead to feel the heat of his fever. “Dorian, may I enter?” 

“Yes, Basil. Please; I miss you so, and although it has only been a day, it feels as if it has been weeks since I last saw you.” 

Basil enters, a pencil and the same pad of paper in his hands. His hair is rumpled from the wind outside and Dorian remembers his life before falling ill, of walking the streets of London without a care of illness in the world, although he suspects that could have been why he had fallen ill in the first place. “How are you feeling today?” Basil asks, pulling up the same chair as the other day and flipping open his sketchpad. “You were quite ill when I left you the other day.” 

“Still ill,” Dorian says. “Unfortunately, this cold shall last me several more days, although I am beginning to feel better. I feel warmer than yesterday, as if I have been wrapped in a sheep’s fleece, and my body no longer aches quite as much.” 

“Well, I am glad to hear,” Basil says. “I was quite worried about you last night. If something horrible were to happen to you-my inspiration, my muse- what would I do! My dear Dorian, you have improved my life greatly, and I thank you for being a bright spot on such a dreary London day.” 

“Oh, Basil, how I have missed your kind words,” Dorian says. “In such an illness as my own, how important it is to be surrounded by such lovely people.” Basil makes a couple of marks on his sketchpad and Dorian looks over. 

“Oh, Dorian, if you would pose in the way you were yesterday, I would be so grateful. My sketch of you is so close to being finished; when you cannot come to my studio, I shall come to you as long as it takes you to recover.” 

“Well, I certainly am glad that I could help,” Dorian says. He tilts his head and adjusts his arm so that he is in a relatively similar position as yesterday, although it is difficult to remember. The memories from the past couple of days are hazy, and as his fever clouds his judgement and his mind, he is absorbed in the sounds of sketches and hums from Basil. The effects of the tea are beginning to wear off, and he sniffles, coughing gently as the pounding in his head becomes unbearable. “Oh, the aches have returned,” Dorian says. “I could live my entire life without feeling aches such as these.” 

“You mustn’t let me keep you from a nap,” Basil says. “I slip into such a trance while I draw, I’m afraid I’m not much company! And I have been so hoping for a fast recovery, and I would be beside myself if I were to get in the way of that. Please, rest. My presence should not disturb you.” 

“Well, I have been sleeping quite a bit in my illness, so I shall stay awake and talk with you,” Dorian says. He yawns, covering his mouth with his hand. “Basil, how have you been? I feel as if my wretched cold has consumed so much of my life, I forgot to ask!” 

“Thank you for asking, I have been quite well,” Basil says. “My art has taken a backseat, I suppose. Not having your influence has certainly taken a toll on my inspiration, although being here, with you, has helped me. You know, I have been working on a new painting, and I am sure you will love it. A simple landscape, although it has all the beauty and elegance of you. And-” he looks up from his sketchpad to see that Dorian is asleep. Perhaps out of boredom, although Basil suspects that the flush across his cheeks has something to do with the sudden plunge into sleep. Basil stands up, leaning over Dorian’s still body and resting the back of his hand against Dorian’s forehead, feeling the heat wafting off of the young man. Dorian stirs, eyes cracking open and a tiny, giddy smile spreading across his face. 

“Oh, I must’ve fallen asleep,” Dorian murmurs. His voice is so quiet in illness, and his head rolls on the pillow, exposing his porcelain cheek, painted red with fever. “How very rude of me!” He tries to sit up but Basil presses a hand to his chest and Dorian sinks back to his bed, groaning softly and tilting his chin up to the ceiling. 

“Dorian, I beg of you, rest,” Basil says. “Your fever is high, and I would be remiss if my presence were to disrupt your recovery.”

“But I am a host, and you are my guest, and-”

“Dorian,” Basil says. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. Dorian’s skin burns underneath his skin, and Basil is grateful for the fact that Dorian’s fever will erase this kiss from his memory. “Rest, my dear. Please. For me, for my sanity. Rest.” 

Dorian shifts again, and a lock of golden brown hair falls across his forehead. “Rest,” Dorian says. “What a lovely idea.” His eyes close and as his breathing steadies, chest rising and falling. Basil watches over him for a couple more minutes, to assure that his sleep is uninterrupted, before returning to his chair. He picks up his sketchpad and pencil, tilts his head down, continues to draw, capturing Dorian’s likeness in a swipe of his pencil. 

When Dorian wakes, night has fallen. A bowl of soup sits on the table next to his bed but it is cold, as well as the tea that sits next to him. His head spins as he sits up but the aches are gone, and when he coughs, it sounds wetter, as if the illness from deep within his lungs is finally being expelled. A piece of paper falls from his chest and he grabs for it, feeling it crinkle underneath his hands. When he picks it up, he’s looking at a picture of himself. Basil has somehow captured his likeness, the high cheekbones and the fullness of his lips as well as the fever flush of his skin, the bags underneath his eyes. Somehow, even in illness, Basil has managed to make Dorian feel beautiful. The talents of his friend shine through this portrait, sketched from the simplest of supplies and yet, it is the loveliest thing that Dorian has ever been given. A reminder that he is still beautiful in illness, and will return to his former glory after his recovery.

**Author's Note:**

> hope everyone enjoyed!! if you want more my tumblr is @siickdays


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